Chapter 5

FIVE

T he imbeciles had shot up his car.

Yes, it was a rental, but still. The vintage Jag was a priceless piece of automotive history. Did they not appreciate true art when they saw it?

Even injured, the machine purred down the interstate like a Formula 500 race car in its prime. Traffic was moderate, and Truman wove in and out of the lanes, putting more distance between them and their pursuers.

There were no flashing lights behind them, and he looked at Emma, crouched in the tiny space at the foot of the passenger seat. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Her voice, though steady, couldn’t hide the tremor as she reassured him, "I'm fine.”

She was not fine. He checked the rearview. It wouldn’t be long before the Feds caught up with them again, but for now, there was no reason to hide. “You can come out."

She moved stiffly, groaning as she slid into the seat with relief. As the car sped through the night, the passing headlights cast fleeting shadows over her face, revealing the fear and shock in her eyes.

Cranking her head around, she squinted through the back window. “You’re sure?”

Headlights behind them reflected in the rearview. “For now." He wanted to reach across and take her hand, squeeze it, comfort her, but he knew it would be an unwelcome gesture.

Her dress was ripped and soiled, no longer the bright, cheery yellow it had been. With an assessing glance, he scanned her from head to toe, looking for glass cuts, bullet wounds, or anything else that might have gone unnoticed during their harrowing escape. He saw none outside of a few scrapes from bushes.

That was until she lifted her right foot and crossed it over the opposite knee. Another moving bar of light revealed mud, scrapes, and a gash on her heel. She gingerly touched it, sucking in a breath as blood oozed from it and leaked off her heel onto the carpet. "I don't suppose you have a first aid kit in here?"

His tux jacket was shredded in places, but the pocket square was intact. He handed it to her and undid his bowtie. “Press this on the wound and wrap it with my tie. As soon as we get to the hotel, we'll get you cleaned up and find you clothes."

"What about shoes?”

“Some of those, too.” If she was more worried about footwear than the fact she was on the run from half of DC, she was in shock, no doubt about it. She didn't even realize the CIA also wanted a piece of her. “What did you do while you were in prison? Did you get into any fights or rub some gang the wrong way?"

She took the hanky and dabbed at her foot. “A few fights, yes.”

He quirked a brow at her.

“What? I had some issues to work out, all right? Why?"

While most people panicked in the type of scrape they’d just been in, the adrenaline sharpened his mental faculties. “Someone’s gunning for you. It makes me wonder who you pissed off."

“Someone”—she made air quotes before tying the fabric around her foot and ankle—“was gunning for me before this if you recall. I didn’t piss off anyone—I’m being used as a scapegoat.”

He wanted to argue, but maybe she was right. About everything. “In order to get to your mum and her gang.”

“That’s my best guess.”

“But the main players are currently behind bars. Why would someone still be using you?”

She blew out a heavy, labored breath. “I don’t know.”

If she was a mere gemologist who wasn't involved with the Red Hearts, why had she attracted this kind of attention? Who would go to such extremes to frame her for all these thefts? “That was an FBI task force back at the party. They had a group of DC police officers with them. Someone's had their eye on you, but they waited until that moment to bring a team and come after you. If they suspected you were involved in the Bradshaw diamond heist, the Feds could have questioned you before tonight, and they wouldn’t have sent special agents and coppers to apprehend you. You have no record of violence…except for some prison fights, I take it?”

“Okay, I did a lot of yelling and made threats, but I only ever threw one punch.”

He snickered. “One.”

She rolled her eyes and studied the passing scenery. “The bitch threatened my cellmate, who I happened to like. It was my birthday and I was feeling pissy that day. I warned her to shut her mouth, and she took a swing at me. She missed, but I swung back, only I didn’t miss. Sue me.”

“Should I call you Bruiser, now?”

Her fist landed on his bicep. “Only if you want me to break your nose like I did hers.” She was silent for a moment. "They didn't just want me for questioning, did they? The Feds.

The exit for Wisconsin Avenue was coming up, and he changed lanes. "Whoever was in charge wanted to make a big show of arresting you. That room was filled with elite movers and shakers in this town, including the president. Someone was looking to put themselves on stage for him and the others to see."

"I can't believe they shot at us. We’re unarmed."

Another concerning fact. “You are; I'm not.”

Her gaze swung to his face, then scanned his torso and waist. "I didn't realize you were carrying.”

“Oh, I'm not.” If Bridget found out he’d brought a gun to her reception, he would've been more in the soup than he was now. "I'm considered armed and dangerous simply because I'm a trained operative.” He shot her a wink. "I'm a walking weapon of mass destruction. "

Her shock was definitely wearing off. She rolled her eyes again. "Well, WMD, what do we do now?"

It was a valid question. "I have a room at The Willard. We won't be able to stay long, but we can get you cleaned up, and I can grab my belongings. We'll figure things out from there."

"I've got a studio apartment in Fairfax. Maybe we could?—”

He took the offramp. "Sorry, luv. That's the first place they'll look. They probably already have a patrol car waiting for you.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face. "I can't believe this is happening. All I want is to find my dad and prove he's innocent. Do you think the person who set him up is behind this?"

“Strong possibility. If he or she is framing your dad and realized you were out of prison, they may have decided you could become a complication." His mentor had taught him that every one of those held an opportunity. “Or they may have decided you’re an asset to be used.”

He avoided the valet parking, finding a community lot not far from the hotel to leave the Jag. It took him all of two minutes to sweet talk a woman out of her sneakers, giving the gal twice what they were worth. He knew Emma’s feet as well as he knew the fine feel of satin against their skin and had the pair of size sevens in hand before she could blink.

She winced when she shucked off her makeshift bandage and slid her injured foot into the waiting shoe. As if absorbing the pain, she schooled her features into a careful mask. He handed her his tattered jacket, and she slipped it on without complaint. Her gaze landed on his stomach. "You’re hurt."

He glanced down, seeing the blood that had bloomed on the white shirt from a cut. Now that he noticed it, he felt the burn of the slice he’d received from a jagged piece of glass when he climbed through the window.

He thought he'd gotten rid of the worst of them with his jacket, but he'd been moving too quickly and hadn't checked. "It's nothing," he said, waving away her concern. "We have to go in the rear and avoid running into any staff or guests.”

She scanned both of them, unimpressed with his plan. "This is DC. Honestly, I doubt anyone will give us a second glance."

She might be right, but this was one of the elite Intercontinental hotels. Their guests did not walk around in torn, bloody, mismatched clothes. Even spies who’d had a challenging night would not show up like this. "Let's be safe anyway. Head down to avoid the security cameras and follow my lead. We get in and out as quickly as possible. It won't take them long to realize who I am and figure out where I'm staying."

She nodded, fingering the edges of his coat sleeves. The garment swallowed her whole, and even though the night was warm for April, and the jacket was wool, she visibly shuddered. A bleakness registered in her gaze. "Why are you doing this for me?"

He'd been asking himself the same thing since he’d snuck out of that kitchen. I don’t make mistakes, and I sure as hell don’t send innocent women to jail . "I want to get to the bottom of this, just like you do, and none of this adds up in my book. It's your choice, though. Do you want my help? If so, we do things my way, whether you like it or not. Understand?"

Temper flickered behind her eyes. "I forgot how bossy you are."

He chucked her under the chin. "You didn't forget a thing about me."

She made a soft, disgusted growl in the back of her throat. “Don't push me. I've had a bad night.”

That's what he’d been looking for—that spunk. She was still reeling from what had happened, but if he could keep her fired up, irritated, and annoyed, he might have a fighting chance of keeping her on her feet until he got them to safety. “Okay, Bruiser.”

She gave him the middle finger.

Good, because this was only the beginning. They were fugitives, and things were going to get worse before they got better.

Once they made it up five flights of stairs and through the fire door onto his floor, he had to chuckle at the irony of that thought. Right before they turned the corner, he heard a policeman’s radio squawk.

Grabbing Emma, he jammed her back against the wall.

"What the…?” she squeaked, falling silent when he pressed a finger to his lips.

He motioned at the hallway and mouthed, police .

Her expression went from startled to fear in a heartbeat. What do we do ?

He couldn't believe they’d identified him and staked out his room already. Stone—it had to be that bastard. Did they suspect he was involved in Emma's crimes? That he was somehow helping her with these thefts? He wanted to punch the wall.

Taking her hand, he backtracked to the stairs. As they raced down, she kept up with him, but…

Damn it all to hell.

He’d always been quick on his feet in dangerous situations. As he urged her to move faster, Plan B formed. By the time they hit the staff exit, she was breathing hard.

He guided her into the night, the blaze of stars overhead becoming obscured by forming clouds. She wasn’t as fit as he was, but he urged her to run faster and faster.

With deep regret, he left the Jag where she sat in the garage and towed Emma to an older Dodge Charger he’d spotted. He would have preferred a newer Hellcat or Demon, but this would have to do.

“What are you”—she cut off as he shoved her into the passenger seat. “Never mind. We’re stealing a car. Great. Now I am a thief.”

He jumped in behind the wheel. “Seatbelt, luv.”

The beast roared to life, and he wheeled it out of the garage, blasting through the unmonitored gate with a computerized system that asked for his ticket.

The front end held up, and no airbags went off, but Emma screamed as the wooden arm broke and went flying. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the dash.

He’d just entered traffic when a siren bleeped behind them. A blue light swept through the interior. A string of curse words left his mouth. How had they found him so quickly?

Emma screamed again; this time, it was his name. “Truman!”

That sound spiked his heart rate, sending a blast of single-mindedness through him.

“Hold on.” He swerved into the oncoming lane. Horns blared, and cars swerved, causing a commotion and blocking their pursuers.

It didn’t make sense—they hadn’t been spotted at the hotel, he was sure of it. No one had been waiting in the garage—at least no one he’d noticed.

But maybe they’d been watching the Jag. Not paying attention to the other potential getaway cars.

He took a hard right, ignoring the traffic lights and sending Emma careening into him. She straightened, and he was glad he’d spent enough time in this metropolis to have a decent map of it inside his head.

It appeared his brain was his only asset at the moment. He’d lost his cell, had no laptop, and, most importantly, might not have any friends left at the CIA. At this point, he wasn’t sure Brigit would talk to him ever again. His resources were dwindling by the second.

But when Emma glanced at him with her heart in her eyes, he gave her a wink and pressed the accelerator harder.